State borders are not as simple as they look

[November 1st, 2009]

When I was a kid, I would look at maps of the American West and be fascinated by those enormous states. Wyoming! Utah! Colorado! They looked like giant mathematical figures, crisply defined in an otherwise chaotic world. I also thought that the borders really were a dotted line on the ground, but that misconception was quickly disspelled by my parents.

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Nevertheless, I always carried in my mind the idea that western states were mostly defined by straight lines of whole latitude and longitude (parallels and meridians).

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So it was with some surprise that, while working on a <a href=”http://www.integrity-logic.com”>GIS app for the iPhone</a>, I discovered that these cherished beliefs were in fact plain wrong.

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The first misconception was that these straight lines run mostly along whole meridians and parallels. It certainly looks that way at first sight. For instance, the border between Arizona and New Mexico really does look like it’s smack on the 109th west meridian. But when you zoom in, you see that it’s actually off, and by more than a rounding error. What happened? Did the surveyors of yore goof? As a <a href=”http://www.amerisurv.com/content/view/6057/”>fascinating article in The American Surveyor</a> reveals:

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“In a case of national pride edging out common sense, the dividing line was defined as the 32nd meridian west of Washington”

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which turns out to be almost three minutes of arc west of the 109th meridian, or roughly three miles. Goodness forbid we should keep things simple. At least we can blame this one on the politicians.

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OK, so the border between Arizona and New Mexico is a bit strange. But that’s the exception, right?

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Well, no. The border between Colorado and New Mexico (and a bunch of other states) was originally defined as the 37th parallel. But man proposes, and the surveyor disposes. As it turns out, the surveyors did make a small mistake of 365 feet — not bad at all for late-19th century techniques, but enough to create a problem now. So, as described in <a href=”http://www.waymarking.com/waymarks/WM72RM_Latitude_37_North_the_border_between_six_US_States_Four_Corners”>Waymarking</a>:

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“Instead of a costly reassessment of the border line, the states affected and the US Supreme Court amended the definition of the state’s border, so now, the border between Utah, Colorado and Kansas in the North and Arizona, New Mexico and Oklahoma in the South is no longer at 37 N but at 36 59’56.34”N. “

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My belief in the cosmic order thus shaken, you can imagine how perturbed I was when I realized that, not only are these lines not exactly on whole meridians and parallels, but in fact they’re not even straight at all.

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Colorado, for instance, looks like it’s a perfect rectangle (if we ignore the spheroidal surface of the earth, of course). But if you examine closely the border with Utah, you’ll notice that there are <a href=”http://maps.google.com/?ie=UTF8&ll=38.155617,-109.008408&spn=0.478381,0.632401&z=11″>a few squiggles</a>. Small to be sure, but it is not a straight line. Same thing for the <a href=”http://maps.google.com/?ie=UTF8&ll=40.997537,-108.629014&spn=0.014349,0.019763&z=16″>border with Wyoming</a>. All these slight deviations from the geometrically ideal go back to the 19th century when surveying, although remarkably precise considering the technology available at the time, was not what it is today.

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In the case of the Colorado/Utah border, it was a <a href=”http://geology.utah.gov/surveynotes/gladasked/gladkink.htm”>surveying oopsie</a> of just over a mile. Still not bad for 1879. The border between California and Nevada was defined as a straight line from what turned out to be the middle of lake Tahoe to the intersection with the Colorado river. But wouldn’t you know it, the river moved, and the surveyor, rather than start from scratch, fudged the line. Ah, contractors!

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In fact, the closer you look, the worse it gets. All these borders are ultimately defined by monuments which were erected by surveying teams. As Ivars Peterson says in his blog, <a href=”http://mathtourist.blogspot.com/2007/08/rectangular-states-and-kinky-borders.html”>The Mathematical Tourist</a>:

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“once a border is defined on the ground and accepted by the interested parties, it becomes official, even if it doesn’t follow the written description.”

<p/>

So it’s not just that there are a few errors here and there — these seemingly-rectilinear states are actually polygons with hundreds of side!

<p/>

These vagaries can sometimes have serious consequences. A mini-war was actually fought between California and Nevada over this. Judges were thrown in jail, guns were shot in anger, and blood was shed during the <a href=”http://www.nevadacas.com/rccsawar.htm”>”Sagebrush War”</a> (more of a skirmish, really) in 1863, fought over which state Susanville belonged to. Maybe they felt like they were missing out on the Civil War and needed some excitement of their own. At one point, Susanville was the seat of two counties, one in Nevada, the other in California. They even got to elect a representative in both states.

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This all seems very quaint and amusing in this era of GPS and laser ranges, so it’s hard to believe that it’s not yet over. As recently as 1980, there was a <a href=”http://www.altlaw.org/v1/cases/384566″>lawsuit between the states of California and Nevada</a> regarding the exact location of the border. That is a long-running feud between the two states, mostly because the line has been <a href=”http://www.waymarking.com/waymarks/WM2X8Z_California_Arizona_and_Nevada”>redefined so many times</a>. And even today, in 2009, there are <a href=”http://www.nobleco.org/surveyor/index.php?q=all-in-the-meridian”>legal maneuverings between the U.S. and Canada</a> over the exact location of the Alaska border. It looks like the surveyors were a few hundred feet off (and, really, would could blame them?). A few hundred feet doesn’t sound like much until you multiply it by 647 miles. Add some oil and gas, and you can keep a sizeable herd of lawyers fat and happy for a long time.

<p/>

So this is what I’ve learned: borders are not on neat meridians and parallels, they’re not straight lines, and sometimes we’re not even completely sure where they are. Apparently, the world is not as neat and orderly as I imagined when I was a child.

When I was a kid, I would look at maps of the American West and be fascinated by those enormous states. Wyoming! Utah! Colorado! They looked like giant mathematical figures, crisply defined in an otherwise chaotic world. I also thought that the borders really were a dotted line on the ground, but that misconception was quickly dispelled by my parents.

Nevertheless, I always carried in my mind the idea that western states were mostly defined by straight lines of whole latitude and longitude (parallels and meridians).
So it was with some surprise that, while working on a GIS app for the iPhone (now defunct), I discovered that these cherished beliefs were in fact plain wrong.

The first misconception was that these straight lines run mostly along whole meridians and parallels. It certainly looks that way at first sight. For instance, the border between Arizona and New Mexico really does look like it’s smack on the 109th west meridian. But when you zoom in, you see that it’s actually off, and by more than a rounding error. What happened? Did the surveyors of yore goof? As a fascinating article in The American Surveyor reveals:

In a case of national pride edging out common sense, the dividing line was defined as the 32nd meridian west of Washington

which turns out to be almost three minutes of arc west of the 109th meridian, or roughly three miles. Goodness forbid we should keep things simple. At least we can blame this one on the politicians.

OK, so the border between Arizona and New Mexico is a bit strange. But that’s the exception, right?

Well, no. The border between Colorado and New Mexico (and a bunch of other states) was originally defined as the 37th parallel. But man proposes, and the surveyor disposes. As it turns out, the surveyors did make a small mistake of 365 feet — not bad at all for late-19th century techniques, but enough to create a problem now. So, as described in Waymarking:

Instead of a costly reassessment of the border line, the states affected and the US Supreme Court amended the definition of the state’s border, so now, the border between Utah, Colorado and Kansas in the North and Arizona, New Mexico and Oklahoma in the South is no longer at 37 N but at 36 59’56.34”N.

My belief in the cosmic order thus shaken, you can imagine how perturbed I was when I realized that, not only are these lines not exactly on whole meridians and parallels, but in fact they’re not even straight at all.

Colorado, for instance, looks like it’s a perfect rectangle (if we ignore the spheroidal surface of the earth, of course). But if you examine closely the border with Utah, you’ll notice that there are a few squiggles. Small to be sure, but it is not a straight line. Same thing for the border with Wyoming. All these slight deviations from the geometrically ideal go back to the 19th century when surveying, although remarkably precise considering the technology available at the time, was not what it is today.

In the case of the Colorado/Utah border, it was a surveying oopsie of just over a mile. Still not bad for 1879. The border between California and Nevada was defined as a straight line from what turned out to be the middle of lake Tahoe to the intersection with the Colorado river. But wouldn’t you know it, the river moved, and the surveyor, rather than start from scratch, fudged the line. That’s contractors for you.

In fact, the closer you look, the worse it gets. All these borders are ultimately defined by monuments which were erected by surveying teams. As Ivars Peterson says in his blog, The Mathematical Tourist:

once a border is defined on the ground and accepted by the interested parties, it becomes official, even if it doesn’t follow the written description.

So it’s not just that there are a few errors here and there — these seemingly-rectilinear states are actually polygons with hundreds of side!

These vagaries can sometimes have serious consequences. A mini-war was actually fought between California and Nevada over this. Judges were thrown in jail, guns were shot in anger, and blood was shed during the “Sagebrush War” (more of a skirmish, really) in 1863, fought over which state Susanville belonged to. Maybe they felt like they were missing out on the Civil War and needed some excitement of their own. At one point, Susanville was the seat of two counties, one in Nevada, the other in California. They even got to elect a representative in both states.

This all seems very quaint and amusing in this era of GPS and laser ranges, so it’s hard to believe that it’s not yet over. As recently as 1980, there was a lawsuit between the states of California and Nevada regarding the exact location of the border. That is a long-running feud between the two states, mostly because the line has been redefined so many times. And even today, in 2009, there are legal maneuverings between the U.S. and Canada over the exact location of the Alaska border. It looks like the surveyors were a few hundred feet off (and, really, would could blame them?). A few hundred feet doesn’t sound like much until you multiply it by 647 miles. Add some oil and gas, and you can keep a sizable herd of lawyers fat and happy for a long time.

So this is what I’ve learned: borders are not on neat meridians and parallels, they’re not straight lines, and sometimes we’re not even completely sure where they are. Apparently, the world is not as neat and orderly as I imagined when I was a child.

Reading the world in Braille

January 3rd, 2010

Ten years ago, in February 2000, NASA mapped the entire world in eleven days.

It’s true: the mission was called the Shuttle Radar Topography Mission (SRTM), and over the course of eleven days, it used a big radar attached to space shuttle Endeavour to get elevation data from the vast majority of solid Earth; practically all land between 60 degrees North and 56 degrees South was included, with a resolution of 30 meters (100 feet). Over 9 terabytes of data were captured. It then took two years to process that data and make it usable (and it’s still being refined to this day).

This data is freely available to anyone, and the number of possible applications is almost infinite. It’s been used in GIS, cartography, environmental planning, weather modeling (weather patterns are enormously influenced by the topography), flight simulators, Google Earth, and the list goes on.

I’ve become quite familiar with this data because we used it as one of the base layers in a suite of GIS applications for the iPhone (now defunct). We simply represented it using color-coding, like in most maps, and adding a bit of shading for effect.

In this short article, I’d like to give you a quick tour of the kinds of things this data can reveal. My hope is to get you thinking about what else could be done with this incredible resource.

So what does the data look like?

Imagine being a blind giant, feeling the surface of the Earth with your fingers and trying to guess what you’re touching — that’s what browsing this data is like.

The big mountains, such as Mt. Rainier in Washington state, look pretty much as you’d expect:

Even modest mountains, such as those of southern Ohio, look crisp and present a clear picture of the region’s topography, with water erosion clearly visible.

Distinct features

Some features are quite noticeable. For instance, can you guess what the following is (it’s in southern California)?

If you guessed that it was some sort of fault, don’t feel bad: that’s what I thought too. But it turns out that it’s just a line of sand dunes east of Mexicali:

Which teaches us that not all linear features are faults, even in California. Though a lot of them are. Here’s a portion of central California showing the San Andreas fault:

And here’s the same area, with an extra layer showing currently active faults (color shows recency of movement, line width shows slip rate):

Down to the bare essentials

Seeing nothing but the terrain turns out to be surprisingly useful. Without the distraction of all the other information that is usually displayed on a map, one can really focus on the shape of the landscape. For instance, central Wisconsin shows a subtle contrast between east and west, with the eastern part being more bumpy, and the western part seeming noticeably smoother (look carefully).

This is the limit of the last glaciation. When the glaciers retreated, they left all kinds of material behind, causing the bumpiness of the terrain in that part of the state. Here’s the same location with an additional layer showing the glacial limit:

Cities and buildings

It should come as no surprise that the radar cannot distinguish between natural and man-made features.

Let’s take a look at downtown Boston — an area not known to be particularly hilly.

These bumps are the downtown skyscrapers — averaged out, since the resolution in this picture is 90 meters (300 feet). The small cluster in the lower left is the John Hancock tower. I added a hydrology layer to make it easier to see, but obviously radar does not know water from land.

Big holes in the ground

Looking at Chicago, I was worried when I first saw what looks like a big hole just outside of the city. Could it be a flaw in the data? Why would there be a 250-foot (~75 meters) deep hole at this location?

But it turned out to really exist – it’s the McCook quarry, the second largest quarry in Illinois.

It is so large, in fact, that it’s going to be used to store runoff and sewage from the city. There’s one quarry you may not want to go swimming in.

Florida

Florida presented some special problems. We thought about not having a terrain layer at all, since the state is so flat (highest point: 345 feet/105 meters, on the border with Alabama). But in some ways, that makes smaller features that much more noticeable. For instance, I was puzzled by this strange hill southwest of Boca Raton (resolution 180 meters/600 feet):

Its top elevation is 177 feet/54 meters in the SRTM data, and that’s practically Everest in Florida. A look at the Google Maps view reveals what it is: a landfill.

In fact, it’s quite notorious. Dubbed Mount Trashmore by the locals, the Broward County Landfill has now reached a height of 225 feet/68 meters, and is the subject of much debate in the area. There is even talk of growing it to 280 feet. Why not take it all the way to 346 feet and make it the highest point in Florida? Perhaps our landfills will be the solution to rising sea levels. I have so many creative solutions like this, but no one will listen to me.

Conclusion

I hope to have given you a quick sense of the potential applications for the data from SRTM. It’s up for grabs. Wikipedia has quite a bit of information about it. What creative use will you make of it?

Geology as art

August 29th, 2011

When I see a geological map, it doesn’t make a whole of of sense to me. Perhaps that helps me appreciate their abstract beauty. The fact that they are in fact not at all abstract, and represent the very ground we stand on, makes them that much more appealing to me.

Recently I’ve had the opportunity to look at a lot of these maps. I have learned a little bit about geology, but I have also learned to appreciate the sheer visual quality of these works of art.
One striking example is this snapshot from the USGS geological map of Virginia, showing a portion of the Appalachian mountains:

If you’re a geologist, then you’ll know that greens and blues tend to represent sedimentary rocks, whereas purples are for metamorphic rocks. If you’re a geological rube like me, you’ll see an interesting composition with a clear northeast/southwest slant, which presumably tells us something about the formation of this place. The northwest half of the picture looks like billows of smoke, perhaps because the Great Smoky Mountain National Park is not far.

This color scheme is soft and soothing. The Appalachian mountains are old and tired, and they are slowly eroding away. But in northern California, where volcanic processes are still very much alive, the picture looks rather different:

This is the land of earthquakes, hot springs and active volcanoes. Red is the dominant color. The deep red represents rock that has come out of the bowels of the earth as magma. The lighter red shows areas of diorite, an extremely hard rock that was highly prized in ancient times. Around here, things are still moving, and are never at rest.

Sometimes the old and the new can mix, like in central Colorado, where we can see just about every color on the palette:

Here the Great Plains meet the Rocky Mountains (Denver is just off the upper right corner). This picture seems almost random, as if an artist had simply thrown paint blobs at a canvas. Things have been churned around quite a bit, and there is no clear picture — just an image of chaos.

Other regions are more organized, and sometimes even tortured, such as this area of western Massachusetts:

Most of the rocks here are quite old, a billion years and more, and have been worked and reworked by geological processes. Their shape reminds me of a pastry crust, folded and refolded until the layers can no longer be counted. This is busy, worried, anxious.

A more soothing image can be found in central North Carolina:

The general impression is much calmer, friendlier, with colors that seem almost bubble-gummy. Here the plains of the Atlantic coast rise slowly to meet the mountains. There are no volcanoes anywhere, and earthquakes are uncommon. This seems like a relaxed, genteel place.

I will end with one of my favorite places in the world: the Cascade mountains. They are young and vigorous. They are still growing. And yet…

If you look carefully, you’ll see a certain amount of veining. These are the mountains eroding away. Even though they are young, the weather is already working on them. It rains a lot on these slopes, and the water trickling down carries with it bits of rock. Yes, even the mighty Cascades are being worn down by drops of water. There is probably some philosophical lesson in there somewhere, but I will leave that to you, kind reader.

Notes

Many thanks to Dr. Janine Weber for her gracious assistance with geological concepts.

Lessons from the Dreyfus affair

 I have recently taken an interest in the Dreyfus affair, as have many others. The affair was huge in France between 1894 and (roughly) 1906. It split the country down the middle, with a bitterness and acrimony that, even in our divided times, are difficult to comprehend today. As such, I find it a relevant historical precedent to help us understand what is happening in the U.S. today.

Quick historical reminder

If you're like me, you've heard of the Dreyfus affair, but you may be a bit fuzzy on the details, so here are the Cliff's notes. 

1894: evidence is discovered that an officer in the French army has been sending highly classified documents to German intelligence. An investigation is conducted and concludes that Captain Alfred Dreyfus is the guilty party. A court-martial condemns him to twenty years of hard labor. As it turns out, Dreyfus is Jewish.

1896: a new chief of intelligence realizes that the investigation was botched, perhaps even on purpose, and that the real spy was in fact another officer, captain Esterhazy. His superiors don't want to hear about it. 

1897: word gets out that this entire affair has been badly mishandled. Several newspaper articles are published, people start to take notice.

1898: Emile Zola, famous novelist, publishes his article "J'Accuse!", denouncing Dreyfus' treatment and directly naming several generals. This creates an enormous amount of controversy. Zola is tried for libel, condemned to prison, and leaves into exile in England. Huge numbers of articles and books are now published for and against Dreyfus. Most people in France take a position, with conservatives tending to be against Dreyfus and liberals supporting him. Families are split, life-long friendships are ended. Esterhazy flees the country.

1899: Dreyfus is tried again, and found guilty again, with extenuating circumstances. The president pardons him shortly thereafter.

1900: The national assembly passes a law of amnesty for Dreyfus and Zola.

1906: After years of bitter controversy, Dreyfus is finally cleared of all wrongdoing, he is re-established in his rank and promoted to major.

What was that all about?

With historical distance, it seems like a relatively simple case. There was a mistake, the wrong man was accused and found guilty, but the real culprit was eventually found, and the innocent party was cleared. All's well that ends well.

But that doesn't come close to describing how profoundly this affair divided French society. Huge numbers of people, mostly on the conservative/royalist/military side, refused to accept that Dreyfus was not guilty. He had been tried by a court martial and found guilty, therefore he was guilty. There was also a lot of very nasty and crude antisemitism. Dreyfus was guilty because he was Jewish, no matter what the evidence said. "I can read his guilt on his face", wrote a particularly vicious journalist.

In the cold light of logic, this is really difficult to understand. The real spy was found, he eventually confessed. It took much longer than it should have to clear Dreyfus, but he was eventually cleared. So why did so many people continue to believe in his guilt, against all evidence?

I think cold logic is of no help here. Whenever two people are screaming at each other, with veins popping out on their foreheads, you can bet good money that whatever they're screaming about is not the true crux of the disagreement. They're mad (perhaps not even at each other) for some other, much deeper reason, and the argument is about something superficial that, to an observer, seems baffling.

The discord was not about Dreyfus, it was about national identity. The question was not "is Dreyfus guilty?", but rather "who are we as a people?". And for a disturbingly high number of people, that answer could not include a Jew, even one who dedicated his life to the defense of his country. France had suffered a humiliating defeat against Germany in 1871, and lost the province of Alsace to Germany (Dreyfus was born in Alsace when it was still French, which made his loyalty questionable to some). The loss of Alsace was hugely humiliating, and France nursed its resentment for decades afterwards, which contributed to World War I and the savage treatment of Germany in the Treaty Of Versailles in 1919, and I don't need to tell you where that led.

There were other forces at play. The failure of the Panama canal company (1893), which affected a lot of small investors, was blamed on Jewish speculators -- a more convenient target than the real reasons for the failure (the project was far more difficult and costly than anticipated).

It's hard to understand how ingrained antisemitism was at the time. It was everywhere, in a way comparable perhaps to the kind of crude, flagrant racism we had in the U.S. at the time. There were grotesque caricatures in newspapers, books were written about the supposed dangers of international jewry (whatever that means), and people were really quite adamant about this.

A dark portent

I believe our current situation has some similarities. The U.S. is changing rapidly. We used to be a white-dominated country, with non-white people tacitly understood to be tolerated but certainly not in charge -- a reality challenged like never before by the election of Obama. A high school graduate who was willing to work hard could make a decent living, afford a home and a couple of cars, and get a reasonable retirement. The U.S. used to be (by far) the dominating influence in the world. All of these factors are now changing, and a lot of people are anxious and upset. Donald Trump has found a way to tap into this boiling undercurrent of anger and anxiety, but he is only a symptom (he's just not that interesting). When we're screaming at each other about him, we're really expressing our anxieties about a changing world.

The Dreyfus affair, strictly speaking, ended in 1906 with the rehabilitation of Dreyfus, but in fact it lingered on for decades afterwards. Fifty years later, you could still find old animosities and bitterness about it. It truly ended when everyone involved died out.

That is probably the most depressing aspect of this whole business. It never went away, the tears in the social fabric were never repaired. It took the death of all the actors before this sad episode faded away and became a baffling bit of history.

I wish I could tell you that things are going to get better for us, and that we're going to experience a national reconciliation. But I just don't think that's going to happen. If the Dreyfus affair can teach us anything, it's that these deep divisions cannot be healed. They disappear when the people involved disappear. My hope is that the next generation will look back at us with the same bewilderment we feel when we look at the Dreyfus affair. May they be wiser than we were -- they're going to need it.

I don't want to talk about it

 When the pandemic started, I took an interest, like so many others, in the Spanish flu epidemic. I'd heard of it, of course, but I was not all that familiar with its full extent, which was vast. Between 50 and 100 million people died around the world in less than two years. About 675,000 people died in the US alone. The population of the US at the time was just over 100 million, so roughly one in 150 Americans died of the flu. This means everyone knew someone, or more likely multiple people, who had died from it. My own great-grandfather died of it. This was a world-wide tragedy -- all of us, no matter where we are from, have connections to the Spanish flu among our ancestors.

And the U.S. had it relatively easy. In Tahiti, about two-thirds of the native population was killed. It was a massacre.

And yet, until the current pandemic, many people had not even heard of the Spanish flu. Why did we not talk about it more? We've all learned about World War I, yet the Spanish flu, which was far more devastating than the war in the U.S., is only briefly covered in most history books.

Based on my (admittedly spotty) research, I've come to think that the historical importance of the Spanish flu was kept to a minimum because the people who went through it didn't want to talk about it. It was a miserable time for everyone, there was civil unrest, enormous dissension -- sound familiar? And death, death everywhere. 

I also suspect that people were not necessarily proud of how they behaved during the pandemic. A contagious disease is a unique kind of disaster. Most natural catastrophes tend to bring people together. We all have a tendency to help each other in a time when everyone is having a tough time. That's what makes this type of pandemic so cruel: we cannot hug each other; crying on one another's shoulder could be deadly, so we are forced to retreat into ourselves. We do have a huge advantage over our ancestors: we can at least communicate easily. Imagine going through Covid in 1990, when all we had was the telephone. Now take away the telephone, and you've got 1918-1919 for most people. But regardless, are we in fact doing everything we can to take care of the most vulnerable members of our society? The question answers itself, doesn't it? The Spanish flu affected mostly young people, but this time, it's the oldest and feeblest among us who are hit the hardest. Will we look back upon this time and tell ourselves that we did the right thing?

Assuming the current Covid crisis is more or less resolved by the end of 2021, will it mostly vanish from our collective memory? I hope not. It's far from over, but at least we can begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel. As far as we can tell at this point, when it's over, it will probably be not as bad as the Spanish flu. But it'll be plenty bad.

Above all, I think I will remember the astonishing politicization of this calamity. If you'd told me ten years ago that we, as a nation, would disagree on straightforward matters of public health, purely based on party affiliation, I would have laughed it off as absurd. But here we are. As we now enter a tough winter, with many, many more deaths ahead of us, I project myself into the future, look back at today, and shake my head in disbelief. This crisis has unveiled an astonishing amount of nonsense, and I see little evidence that we're going to learn from it.

Such a tiny sacrifice

Like most people in the US, I am morbidly fascinated by the slow-motion disaster unfolding now in this country with Covid. It's a vast landscape of pain and death, and sometimes I feel like it's simply too much to contemplate. But I'd like to focus on a very specific aspect of our current national drama: the wearing, or not wearing, of a mask.

When we look back at the Spanish flu years, it's easy for us to feel a condescending pity. Ah yes, these poor souls, they didn't have modern medicine, and thus were lambs to the slaughter. But you know what? Our ancestors at least tried to manage the devastation of the flu. Masks were not only strongly encouraged but, in many places, legally required. If you were not wearing a mask, you could be arrested and thrown in jail. There was a lot of social pressure to wear a mask, everywhere. Was that overreaction? Was that hysteria?

Why is it hysterical to demand that people wear a mask, a very minor, and temporary, inconvenience, but perfectly reasonable to demand that people remove their shoes at the airport, or submit themselves to intimate pat-downs by the TSA? Airplane terrorism has killed fewer people than a couple of days of Covid in this country.

For that matter, why is no one howling at the fascist thugs who force us to wear pants in public? What a heinous attack on our precious freedoms! Down with the trouser nazis!

Obviously, it doesn't help when the loudest voice in the country casts doubt on the disease itself, and on the simple measures we can take to keep it in check. Donald Trump could not be bothered to wear a mask for months after Covid flared up in the U.S., and this appalling lack of leadership probably caused tens of thousands of deaths. It would have cost him nothing to wear a mask, to be an example to rest of the country. But not only did he consciously decide not to do that, he actually made fun of people who did wear a mask. This is criminal negligence at the very least, and more likely murderous idiocy. 

Think about it. The simple act of putting a piece of cloth over his mouth and nose would likely have made a significant difference in the evolution of this disease in the U.S. I cannot think of a smaller gesture having a larger impact, and it would have cost him nothing -- all he had to do was wear a mask in public, thereby giving permission to millions of his followers to do the same. But he simply could not be bothered. Apparently, he was concerned that it would make him look weak.

And now we are reaping the whirlwind. Almost three thousand Americans died of Covid yesterday. Probably even more will die today, and this agony will keep going until the vaccines start to take effect, or we start to take this disease seriously. And Donald Trump is golfing. At least he's no longer telling us that this disease is just going to go away. Surely, some part of him must realize that, in the light of history, the last year of his presidency is going to be seen as a tragedy of biblical proportions. I will remember it as the worst lack of leadership we have ever experienced, and a tragedy made much worse by a lazy, incompetent, cowardly, vicious and sad man. May he disappear into his abyss of self-pity, ignorance and corruption. He will not be missed.

I am nauseous at this waste of human life, at this immense amount of suffering, which will go on for years for many people. A lot of it was preventable. We could not avoid Covid, but we could have done a far better job of managing it and reducing its impact. Can you think of a smaller ask than to add, temporarily, one small piece of clothing? We would have been much better off if we had made pants optional but masks mandatory. No one has ever died from seeing someone naked.

Working at the polls in Oakland

 I have just spent four long, exhausting and exhilarating days working at a polling station in Oakland, California. Every two years, the Alameda county Registrar of Voters hires temporary workers to staff the many polling locations throughout the county, and I figured this would be a good way for me to get involved. As I am not (yet) a US citizen, this would be my first look at the mechanics of the polls, though at an unusual time due to the pandemic.

Oakland is one of the most diverse cities in the nation: about 28% white, 27% latino, 23% Black, 16% Asian, and a smattering of other ethnicities. It is a city of contrast, with poverty and wealth, homelessness and mansions coexisting, sometimes within a stone's throw of each other.

In a normal election, there are about 700 polling locations throughout the county. This year, because of the pandemic, there were only 100, with about 25 in Oakland. Nobody knew how it would go: would we be swamped? There was no way to tell, this was literally an unprecedented situation.

I was assigned as a Judge 2 (I still don't know what the 2 means) to a polling location in East Oakland, in a former shopping mall now used mostly to house various services: Social Security, behavioral health care, elder independence, and a few others. The mall felt somewhat empty, but it is reasonably well maintained.

I was part of a team of about twenty people, all volunteers except for the supervisor. The county actually pays you, so you're not strictly speaking a volunteer, but you get less than $10 an hour, so if money is what you're after, you should probably consider other options. I was surprised to see that there were only five men. I asked other team members who had done this before, and they told me that this is normal: it's always mostly women.

There was S., a Black grandmother with braids. She and I immediately took to each other. Her eyes are shining with intelligence, and she is quick to kid around. As a Black grandmother, she is endowed with a great power: she can call anyone sweetie or honey, and no one ever has the slightest objection. This superpower can sometimes come in handy, as we'll see later.

There was C., another Black grandmother who loves to cook, and sells her jams, jellies and crafts at fairs and markets, or rather, used to sell them before the pandemic. She's still going, though, and I pity anyone who tries to stop her. C. has opinions and is not afraid to let you know about them. I liked her immediately.

There was B., a white middle-aged lady who, when I mentioned that I was French, spoke to me fondly of her wife of German extraction. B. is gregarious and has a gift for making people feel at ease. We got along famously.

I came to think of them as "my ladies". They were wonderfully kind and cheerful, and I adored them all.

There were also two high school girls, D. and F., who were doing this for high school credit (and pocket money), and ended up being marvelous at their job. D. was our Spanish interpreter, and she fulfilled her role quietly, competently and with great kindness. F. was a tiny young woman wearing a hijab. My ladies were endlessly tickled by the fact that, under her floor-length dress, she was wearing mountaineering boots. She was wonderfully helpful.

Our supervisor was R., a young Black woman of noticeable energy and decisiveness. R. works for the county and had been training for this election (her first) for two months. Assembling twenty strangers to work together for long hours over four days can offer, as you might imagine, some challenges, but R. had a firm yet gentle hand that made the whole thing work smoothly. She's the kind of public servant that makes the world go round, and rarely gets enough appreciation.

The first two days (Saturday, October 31 and Sunday, November 1) were terribly quiet. We saw maybe one voter every thirty minutes. We got really bored. We were all wearing masks, gloves and face shields. We knew that democracy can be messy, we discovered that it can also be sweaty and dull. But these two days allowed us to work out the kinks in the system. By Monday, we got more traffic, and of course Tuesday was very busy, but by then we were ready. Nobody had to wait longer than a half hour or so. Still too long, of course, but far better than what I had feared.

My job was to be a backup for the check-in ladies -- these are the first people you see when you enter the polling station. One offers you a mask and gloves, which you can decline if you do not fear some serious side-eye from a Black grandmother. Only one voter was that brave. We then had three stations that would ask you for your name, look you up in the register with an iPad, and explain your options. We had quite a few people who were not registered, but we could always offer them a provisional ballot, so no one was turned away.

In Alameda county, you can vote using a paper ballot, or you can use a touch screen, which then prints a paper ballot. This is a good system: no one (including myself) really trusts computerized voting, so having a printed ballot that you can visually inspect before casting it is the right way to go. Obviously, most older voters selected paper, and no one complained about these options.

I made two mistakes with voters that I regret but could not fix at the time. One was with a young person who was voting for the first time, and was clearly nervous and shy. I asked one of my teammates to walk him to the next station, and then realized that I had erred: this was a young lady, of ambiguous appearance maybe, but I probably made her feel bad at a moment when she needed all the support she could get. Lesson learned, or so I thought.

Later, a father came in with his child of maybe five years of age. We had mountains of styluses for the touch screens, and everyone got to keep theirs, so I offered one to the young man, only to have the father correct me: it was in fact a girl, and I fear that I may have hurt her with my blind assumption. This was a real lesson for me: you read about gender and political correctness, but these things really matter, and there is no excuse for hurting a child. I really wish we had more gender-neutral ways of addressing people and referring to them. I always addressed voters as "sir" and "ma'am", because I wanted to show respect, but this can be fraught. If I could call people sweetie or honey, that would be quite helpful, but I am a man, so that's simply not an option.

On election day, we saw several hundred people coming through. It was a magnificent slice of humanity, with every color of the rainbow. Most people were excited to vote. We got very few outbursts and gripes, and when we did, my ladies were always able to defuse the situation with kindness and grace. I have learned a lot from watching them.

I was particularly touched by two voters: one was an old Black man with a walker, who moved with great difficulty, but would not be deterred. He was going to cast his ballot if it cost him his life. We're not supposed to physically help voters, as I suppose that opens up all kinds of liabilities, but in his case we made some reasonable exceptions. We are, after all, human.

The other was a Hispanic couple, I would guess from central America. The wife needed some help because she could not read or write. In these situations, the procedure is that two poll workers must assist the voter, to lower the likelihood of any funny business. Our high school girls took excellent care of her, and she was able to proudly cast her ballot.

Overall, even though this was an exhausting experience (15 hours straight on November 3!), it was also a joyous one. Voting is the closest thing we have to a civic ritual, and I found it to be a profound and moving scene. Every voter got a round of applause after they cast their ballot, doubly so for first-time voters, and I think that was appreciated.

I met wonderful people that I would otherwise be unlikely to have ever met, and we all worked together to help the people of Oakland make their voice heard. I will definitely do this again in two years.